


Memory Lane

by orphan_account



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: And like, During Season 3, I NEED MORE, I have am die, I have been watching Elite, I have never felt more empty, I hope everyone is still alive, I just finished it, I'm Sorry, I'm just sad it's over, M/M, Oh My God, So here's my rant for the day, This is how I tag, Throughout quarantine, also, but anyway, for anyone who hasn't read my shit yet, how bout we make everything literally go to shit, i'm not, it's so good, like what the fuck was that, the directors were just like, the ending was so good tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Now living in the city as a successful surgeon, Patroclus returns to his hometown for his father's funeral.Unfortunately, he gets a little more than he asked for when he sees his ex-boyfriend at the service.  Now each living their own lives, Patroclus and Achilles are thrown together in what may be the last time they ever see each other.  Unless, of course, they decide it isn't the last time.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Patroclus - Relationship
Comments: 57
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So idk how many chapters this is gonna be. Proabably 4-5? Maybe more?? Idk. Basically I got this inspiration for writing this while listening to Julia Michael's "What A Time". Idk.

Patroclus stared disdainfully at his own reflection. He was clad in a black suit and tie, standing in too-small shoes that bit his ankles and scraped his heels. Too formal, he thought; too dressed-up for the funeral of a man who’d treated him like shit. Menoetius wasn’t worth his discomfort. He tossed the dress shoes into his old closet and changed into the pair of tattered converse sneakers he’d brought on a whim.

It was strange to be back here. His old house. His old bedroom. He couldn’t remember it ever being this small. Now, his head was cut off by his mirror, and he had had to duck under the door frame to enter the room.

Besides that, though, it was all exactly as he’d remembered it. It was like time had frozen since he’d last been here- everything was where he’d left it, not a millimeter to the left or right. His dad probably hadn’t been in here once. His books were still stacked unevenly at his bedside table, the pile precariously arching to the side; his covers still messily slung over the mattress; Polaroid photos still plastering the same wall, faces smiling beneath a film of dust. Patroclus didn’t bother looking at them. 

There were no memories he wanted to surface.

He sighed and combed his messy hair with his fingers.

The bedroom was full of ghosts. It had been years, but he could still remember the way the rising sun had slanted in through the window above his bed as he woke up. Lying on the floor and playing cards with Briseis, who he could somehow never beat. Sitting hunched over his desk, cramming for a test and studying until his brain crashed. Splaying out on the roof outside his window in the summer, soaking in the sun like a lizard on a rock, staring up at an ocean of blue sky and talking with the one person whose face he could never forget.

The air was stifled with dusty memories, the whisper of words dying as time passed. Silhouettes painted on the wall, fading over time.  
Patroclus didn’t like being back. He couldn’t wait for the funeral to be over and the coffin buried, so he could catch the next flight back to the city, so he could drown himself in his work and be so busy he didn’t have to remember.

*****

The funeral was a quiet event. At the reception, neighbours and friends of his father would come up to Patroclus and offer their condolences. Maybe a few of them would ask him what he was up to now, how his life as a surgeon was going. He would simply thank them, and to the few that asked, he would give a short, watered-down “Good” or “It’s going well, thank you”. Everyone probably thought his dull, brief responses were due to grief; the truth was, Patroclus didn’t feel a morsel of sadness at his father’s death. Menoetius was all smiles for the show, but he was a bitter man behind closed doors who often took his anger out on his son, and the bad memories had eradicated any shred of remorse Patroclus might’ve felt. He was just tired.

They buried the body after the reception. The sky was a slate of stone grey as it hung low over the cemetery, and the dry air shivered with chilled breezes. Dried leaves rustled over the grass, catching between the blades and on Patroclus’s shoelaces. From the banks of the cemetery, the thin trees clacked their skeleton limbs together, waving in the wind.

The eulogies washed over Patroclus’s head like water. Nothing the speakers said was true; no one knew the man behind closed doors, how he had drunkenly rampaged through the house, shouting belligerently at Patroclus and knocking over tables. Patroclus sighed and let the cool breeze caress his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, too caught up in his own exhaustion to care if anyone noticed.

The wind ran cold fingers through his hair. It slipped down his throat, pooling in his stomach like ice. He had forgotten, too, what fresh air tasted like. Clean. Refreshing. Like drinking from the coldest spring.

Patroclus felt someone’s eyes burning holes into his face. He quickly opened his eyes and sat up straight, afraid they were angry at him for slouching in his seat, when-

Oh.

_O h. ___

___Oh my God. ____ _

____Someone had taken out a gun and shot him in the chest. A burst of shock raced through his veins, and his heart shattered his ribcage in its wild rhythm. All air whooshed out of his lungs in a single breath, and a wave of dizziness struck his head like a gong. Patroclus clutched at his wrists, suddenly aware of the terrible shaking of his hands, and prayed prayed prayed that this wasn’t real, that he was hallucinating, that Achilles Pelides was not sitting across from him._ _ _ _

____Patroclus _wished _someone would shoot him. Right in the face. That would be nice.___ _ _ _

______The rest of the world blinked into nonexistence as shocking emerald eyes met his own, wide and reflecting the same disbelief he felt. Achilles’s mouth was hanging open a little in shock._ _ _ _ _ _

______Thunderstruck, Patroclus swallowed. He was forgetting how to breathe._ _ _ _ _ _

______In flesh, Achilles was even more beautiful than Patroclus remembered. Golden curls, no longer long, framed a perfectly sculpted face. Vividly green, almond eyes, long lashes spilling over cheeks dusted pink. The same high cheekbones, that jawline that could cut steel. _Achilles. _____ _ _ _ _

________Patroclus was on fire. The world had gone up in flames, devouring him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Achilles seemed to come back to himself a little. He smiled tentatively from across the coffin, and it was just as beautiful as Patroclus remembered it to be, and Patroclus wondered how he hadn’t noticed the knife in his stomach._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________It took everything- _everything _\- in him to smile back. He didn’t really figure out the muscles in his face completely, and he was sure it looked like less of a smile than an awkward half-grimace, but at least he wasn’t gaping anymore. He dropped his gaze down to his hands. Why wouldn’t they stop _shaking _?_____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Patroclus had not prepared for this. He didn’t even have Achilles’s number anymore, and he hadn’t since he’d broken his old phone and lost all his contacts. Wasn’t Achilles? a superstar Olympic runner or something, now? Shit. Patroclus didn’t even know where he lived. What was he doing back here, in the town where they grew up? Why was he here?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The rest of the ceremony blipped by. It took every single ounce of strength Patroclus possessed not to look back at Achilles. He stared down at his hands, tracing along the lines of his sweaty palms, biting back the vomit in his throat. All he could feel was Achilles’s probing gaze on his face, burning two holes in his head like lasers. Patroclus wanted to close his eyes and disappear. He wanted the universe to swallow him up whole. He wanted- he wanted to be anywhere but here._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________More than anything, it hurt. It hurt to be here, with him. Breathing the same air as him. Achilles’s proximity was a physical presence, crushing Patroclus against his seat and causing him to buckle beneath the pressure. He had to get out of there._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________As soon as the ceremony ended, Patroclus was striding across the grass. He ducked his head down and shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to weave through the crowd, desperate to get back into his car and drive far far far away from here and never look back because he did not sign up for this-_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Patroclus!” came a voice behind him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Shit. _Shit. _____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kinda depressing. Whoops.
> 
> I promise it'll get happier later on, just hang in there.

He considered running. Sprinting for the hills then and there, so far and so fast that he didn’t have to turn around and face the guy he’d been trying to forget since high school. But Patroclus wasn’t fast- even if he was, Achilles was a track star, for God’s sake- and he didn’t see any other options at this point. With every bit of strength he could muster, he turned around.

The air was immediately stolen from him. Achilles was right there, standing just six feet away from him, with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoe toeing the dirt. His eyes widened when he realized that Patroclus had stopped, had turned around, was waiting for him, and he offered another small smile that twisted up Patroclus’s insides and knocked him off his feet.

He was so, so beautiful.

“Hi,” Achilles said. The word was abrupt and stark, laid bare at Patroclus’s feet. An offering.

“Hi,” Patroclus replied in a voice that was smaller still. He didn’t even know how he got a sound out, to be honest; it felt like his entire face had been shot up with a triple dose of novocaine, and all the muscles were numb and slack. Patroclus felt like he was breathing through a straw. His heart was pulsing against his throat, beating its wings against the skin like a butterfly taking flight.

_Say something._

_Anything._

_It’s_ Achilles, _for God’s sake._

Achilles coughed, filling in the silence. His green eyes- Patroclus had forgotten how just green they were- like leaves damp with sunlight- flickered up to Patroclus’s face, tentatively. “I came by to say- I came by to say that I’m sorry. About- about your dad.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Each fragment of conversation was strained, wrought like an ore from solid granite. Patroclus dropped his head; it was getting very hard to resist the urge to run, now.

Yet Achilles pushed through the thick silence. “How are you?”

Patroclus didn’t know why, but the question made him angry; why should Achilles care? They hadn’t spoken in years. They’d gone their separate ways. Cut themselves out of the other’s life because it was too hard to entwine two paths going in completely different directions. He clenched his fists in his pockets, so tightly that his nails sank into his palms.

“I’m fine,” Patroclus said brusquely. “And you?” It came out harshly, and his regret deepened at the momentary hurt that flashed across Achilles’s face.

“Good, I guess. Busy.” Busy. Yes. He’s busy. Great. Busy with his Olympian training and his six wives and handling all his goddamn millions-

“That’s- good. Good. Well. I- I should probably get going, I guess. I have- I have some work calls I need to take.” Patroclus was desperate, drowning beneath the waves of Achilles’s presence, fighting to escape the tides and crawl to shore. Why was it so hard to breathe? How did Achilles still have this effect on him, after all this time? Patroclus turned to go, not caring if he was being rude, not caring how obvious his discomfort was, because every single second he stood there was like a blade being thrust deeper and deeper into his chest, twisting its way through tissue and bone. Tearing through his heart.

 _We used to be so close_ , Patroclus thought. _The words would flow like water between us. Now I can’t even stand the sight of him._

That was the worst part of it, he realized. That they used to be so close. That they were virtually inseparable, always hanging onto each other like extended limbs. Being away from each other hurt, even. Patroclus had never felt more whole than when he was with Achilles, the boy who completed him, his other half. How many hours had they spent biking through town together, shouting over the wind? How many days had been passed in woods, hiking, sneaking off the trail to explore the dense forest? How many nights had they slept at each other’s houses, pointing out the stars and whispering secrets in the dark?

_That one’s Ursa Major._

_No, no- it’s Ursa Minor. See? How the handle’s on the right?_

_That’s dumb. And you’re breathing too loudly._

_You’re just mad that I know the stars better than you. And I’ll breathe as loud as I want to, you ass._

And- now this.

Strained conversation. The distance between them, both metaphorical and physical, manifest in those six feet of grass and dirt. Pained expressions. Small talk, something they both hated, seemed to be all they could manage.

Where had the years gone?

Patroclus inhaled a shaky breath and started towards his car. Each step away from Achilles was a step out of firing range.

“Pat, wait!”

 _Pat._ Patroclus felt like he’d been punched. Achilles never called him just “Pat”. He would say it was because- because a name as beautiful as Patroclus’s deserved to be spoken in full, was much too beautiful a name to be cut short, and, my, the way Achilles used to say it was the loveliest thing in the world. It made Patroclus feel special. Like he was just as extraordinary as Achilles was.

_Don’t fucking cry. Just- keep it together a little longer._

Achilles seemed to struggle to find the words to say next, which was strange; Patroclus had never known him to be inarticulate. Maybe they had never really known each other at all.

“It was really nice to see you again,” Achilles said, finally.

“Yeah,” Patroclus choked out. “Y-you too.” A shuddering breath. “Goodbye, Achilles.”

Achilles seemed to freeze at the sound of his name. He seemed torn between letting Patroclus go and forcing even more words out of them, regardless of how hollow they were. In the end, though, he stayed silent as Patroclus cast a final glance over his shoulder and walked away.

It had begun to rain. Cold droplets slicked Patroclus’s face and wetted his hair as he cut across the squishy grass, towards where his car was parked. He was glad at the cool sensation of the icy raindrops on his skin; it felt like his body was burning up.

He opened the car door quickly and practically dove in, eager to avoid being flagged down again. The door closed with a slam, and Patroclus immediately dropped his head against the wheel. He stared down at his sneakers, now encrusted with mud.

_Bet you still couldn’t beat me in a race with those._

_I’ll whip your ass, Pelides._

Goddamn. Goddamn goddamn goddamn.

Patroclus opened the glove compartment and shuffled through a sea of crumpled papers and receipts until he found what he was looking for: a pack of cigarettes that’d been sitting there, untouched, for months. He placed it between his teeth and held a lighter to the tip, rolling his thumb down the rusty sparkwheel. A flimsy shower of sparks sprayed the cigarette but died out; his hands were shaking shaking shaking too much to hold the lighter still, to light the tobacco so he could stop fucking _panicking_ -

“Piece of _shit!_ ” Patroclus yelled, chucking the pack back into the glove compartment. He slammed his head back against the carseat and stared up, hatefully, at the gray ceiling of the car. His lungs were burning burning on fire-

Just-

B r e a t h e.

_In. Out._

Unfortunately, his lungs decided to be fucked up for another few minutes, but at least he no longer felt like a noose had been strung around his neck. Finally, Patroclus started the engine and made to back out.

It was pouring outside, now, and sheets of rain splintered like glass arrows on the windshield. The clouds, impregnated with precipitation, sat heavy upon the billowing trees, roaring with thunder like a great lion. Lightning cracked open the sky like a blade; tendrils of light rippled out to the horizon and projected white shadows across the earth.

_Shit. I forgot the umbrella!_

_Are you kidding m- wait, was that lightning?_

_Quick, the bridge!_

His windows were too doused with rain for Patroclus to distinctly identify anything outside, but, perhaps if it were dry, he would be able to see the blonde boy standing still, arms limp at his sides, on the lawn, staring at Patroclus’s car. Maybe Patroclus would even see the expression on his face. Maybe it would make him stop, or maybe it wouldn’t.

But the sky was heaving with tears, and it was getting dark, so Patroclus drove back to his house. The house itself was no more than a cave of fading memories and dusty corners, but his flight back to the city wasn’t for another couple days, so it was home, for now.

Patroclus opened the door and allowed himself to be devoured by crushing, pulverizing, pressing loneliness.

 _Ah_ , he thought. _So this is what I tried to forget._

_Promise it’ll be like this forever. Just- just you and me._

_You sappy fuck. Of course I promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a side note, I just finished Circe and o h m y g o d it was so good. I highly recommend the book to anyone who hasn't read it yet. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patroclus is surprised by a visitor.

Dawn cracked like an egg over the night sky. The golden yolk of sunlight rose steadily above the rooftops, washing the sleeping town in royal yellow and spilling into the bedroom like the rising tide.

Patroclus forced his eyes open and shied away from the window, curling beneath his covers like an animal retreating into its den. He closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back asleep, but it was too late; his consciousness was sharpening, and the air was suddenly dusty and hot, and he needed to shower, and there was simply no way he would be able to go back asleep smelling like rain and cigarette smoke.

Moaning, Patroclus dragged the covers off of his cramped limbs and swung his legs over to the side of the bed. In his disorientated state, he squinted, trying to remember why he wasn’t hurrying to get ready for work. All of a sudden, where he was and everything that had happened the day before hit him like a sack of bricks.

His father’s funeral.

Seeing Achilles, of all people, at the burial service.

Talking to Achilles.

Running off, in the rain, like a fool.

Patroclus raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. A feeling of nausea had instilled itself in his stomach as more and more details came flooding back to him. God, he must have looked like such an idiot.

 _At least I won’t have to see him again_ , Patroclus thought.

This was the thought that finally got him up.

The burning water scalded his skin as Patroclus stepped in the shower. White mist clouded over the glass panes, obscuring the bathroom, as a thick, humid steam rose into the air and blossomed like a pale flower. Patroclus’s muscles eased beneath the hot spritz, and he stared directly up at the showerhead, allowing the water to hit him square in the face.

He was just about to get comfortable, when the shower suddenly became icy cold.

“Shhhhit!” Patroclus turned the knob off and jumped out of the shower, seizing his towel.

An unfriendly wake-up call, indeed.

Outside, it had begun to rain again. Like the cold shower water, it was immediate and fierce; the brightening blue sky was instantly buried beneath a thick layer of dark storm cloud, and fat drops of rain came shooting down to earth like missles.

Three more days. His flight was scheduled for Thursday. Just- just three days.

Hopefully, it wasn’t going to be raining the whole time Patroclus was here; he at least wanted to be able to go for walks or-

A knock at the door shook Patroclus from his thoughts. He quickly finished buttoning his jeans and pulled on a hoodie before hurrying downstairs and opening the front door.

Shitshitshitshit-

_Oh God, w h y-_

There it was again, the feeling that he’d been shot.

There _he_ was again, shivering in the pouring rain in nothing but shorts and a tank top, standing on Patroclus’s doorstep like the Grim Reaper himself.

Patroclus’s breath caught in his throat. His fingers twitched with the sudden urge to punch a wall. Or himself.

“Hey, Pat,” said Achilles. He looked anxious. “I hate to bother you so early, but…”

Trying not to flinch at the nickname, Patroclus followed Achilles’s gaze down to a pair of waterlogged sneakers. He quickly noticed how Achilles was leaning heavily on his left leg. He then noticed the blonde boy’s right ankle, which was swollen enough to resemble a tennis ball.

Oh.

All other thoughts instantly flew from Patroclus’s mind as he helped Achilles inside, wrapping a freezing arm around his own shoulders in an attempt to take away some of the pressure off of the injury. He brought Achilles over to the coffee table and immediately dropped down to examine the wound, pulling off Achilles’s sneaker and stripping off a soaking-wet sock.

“Again, I’m really sorry, your house was just closer than where I’m staying or the hospit-”

“How did it happen?” Patroclus interrupted, in no mood for small talk or pointless apologies. He gently pushed his fingers down on the swell, frowning as Achilles winced.

“It started raining while I was out for my run, and I slipped and fell.”

“Uh-huh. Does it hurt when I push down here?”

“Fffff- _yes_ ,” Achilles managed through gritted teeth, squeezing the edges of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Patroclus’s fingers danced over the cold, pulled skin for a few moments more, probing and pushing down gently on the swollen flesh. He refused to look up, refused to look at anything other than that singular ankle, because maybe maybe maybe if he kept his eyes down he could pretend he was talking to any regular patient. Maybe he could even pretend he was back in the hospital, all the way back in the city. All he had to do was keep his head down, and everything wouldbejustfine absolutely ffff i n e-

_Ouch. Ah- son of a-_

_Why didn’t you go to the hospital? Oh, s-sorry, I didn’t mean to push too hard-_

_You’re as good as any doctor, right? I mean, you’re basically a professional. Also, it’s free, right?_

_Those are the dumbest reasons I’ve ever heard. And of course it’s not free. You owe me a soda, you idiot._

Absolutely fine.

Patroclus chewed down on his bottom lip, still refusing to look up. “Okay. I-I think we have some bandages in the closet upstairs, I’m just gonna go grab them real quick- just wait here.” Keeping his eyes pinned to the floor, he strode quickly to the staircase.

As soon as he was out of eyesight, Patroclus leaned his weight against the banister and fought to steady himself.

Achilles _Achilles_ was in his house Achilleswasinhishouse how how how did things like this h a p p e n to him _what do I do whatdo I what do I do justgetthebandages you idiot stop stalling-_

Patroclus’s body was electric with adrenaline; he practically dove up the steps and raced to find the bandages, frantic to have something to do with his hands other than let them shake. When he’d grabbed what he needed and found his way back downstairs, Achilles was still sitting patiently on the table, staring curiously at the chipping walls and looking very much unaffected by his current situation. Instead, he just looked wet and vaguely tired.

Patroclus held up the bandages when Achilles saw him. “Got them,” he said weakly.

Patroclus did his very best not to shake as he wrapped the bandages around Achilles’s ankle, but this proved to be very difficult; he could hardly repress a shudder as his fingers brushed up against golden skin, could hardly contain a gasp as Achilles’s startling green eyes flickered down to meet his own. His body was thrumming with heat, and his blood was charged with an energy he’d forgotten existed.

Achilles was watching him. Patroclus felt it. He was suddenly aware of every pore on his face, every stray curl of his hair, every itty bitty freckle dusting his nose. He forgot that, too- the feeling that Achilles could see right through him. His eyes were hands, reaching into his mind and heart and funnelling their way to his soul. 

Outside, thunder ripped through the sky. Rain pelted against the window. The air was infused with a density that bore down on them both, whispering _silence silence silence_ in their ears.

“Thank you,” Achilles said quietly, when Patroclus had finished. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Patroclus dipped his head awkwardly. He croaked, “It’s- I’m- it’s fine.” He swallowed, suddenly noticing how very soaking wet Achilles was, the way he was struggling to contain his shivering as he sat on the coffee table in a puddle of rainwater.

“Do- um. Do you want to shower?”

A grateful smile immediately sprung up on Achilles’s face, and a flower of heat bloomed in Patroclus’s stomach. Achilles gingerly slid off of the table, cautiously leaning on his left leg, and seemed just about to walk over to the stairs before freezing.

“Is it okay, with you? If I shower?”

All the unspoken words ringing in his ears welled up behind Patroclus’s lips, threatening to burst through and flood the space between them. He tried not to flinch at the implications of Achilles’s hesitancy, forcing down all the things he wanted to say, and forced himself to fake leisure. “D-don’t be silly. I’ll lay out some clothes on my bed for when you’re finished, while I dry yours.”

Again, with the smile. Even contained, it was bright enough to cut away the shadows painting the room. Patroclus tried not to gape.

_What is it? I can literally feel you staring at me._

_Mmmaybe._

_What are you smiling at? Are- did you take my walkman again?_

_I'm smiling at you, stupid. You’re adorable._

“Thank you, Patr- Pat.”

“Uh- yeah. Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'll try to update about once a week, hopefully around Wednesdays. Hope all is well!
> 
> You can find me on Instagram, @mythology.magic, to see some of my art (it's mostly Lore Olympus fanart, but I'm planning on drawing more for TSOA in the future).
> 
> Kudos and comments mean the world! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles takes a shower. And Patroclus is a nervous wreck. Who probably needs a hug.

Patroclus could not focus.

After drying off the coffee table, he sat numbly, eyes transfixed upon the spot where Achilles had been sitting. His brain was a washing machine of whirring thoughts. His ears were buzzing with static noise. He didn’t even try to decipher his emotions. He just allowed himself to panic, drunk with dizzying confusion and nostalgia. Stared at the scuff marks on the tabletop and the shine of the wiped-up rainwater, smeared across wood. Fragmented thoughts echoed through his mind like broken debris, but he simply let them be. The mess of his mind and emotions was too big to clean up, now.

Raindrops on windows, streaking serpentine tails in their wake, sliding down to the windowsill and dropping to the ground below. The sky outside was an abyss; clouds parted to form a chasm of pale light from which rain was spewed. It was a pleasant sound, the hiss of rainfall spraying empty roads. Patroclus wondered if the rain was warm, like summer showers, or cold, like the shower upstairs.

Patroclus punctuated this thought by promptly falling into a chair.

His previously-scattered thoughts simultaneously shot back into the center of his brain, exploding yet again in a hysterical burst of concern- over the fact that the piping system was broken.

 _The water is_ f r e e z i n g _oh my God does Achilles hate me he probably thinks I’m so fucking inconsiderate_

_Shit shit shhhhit-_

Patroclus felt suddenly and incomprehensibly stressed by the thought of poor Achilles standing in freezing cold water. He was an awful person, truly, for forgetting this fact. Achilles probably thought he was so rude. He probably hated him even more. Should Patroclus ask if everything was going fine in there?

 _No, oh my God. Don’t ask that, that’s so_ weird-

Wait. So what if Achilles was cold? He could deal with it. The piping system was not Patroclus’s problem. He was the one letting Achilles shower in the first place. He had helped him with his injured ankle. Not many ex-boyfriends would have even been that helpful.

_Ffffuck- his ankle- what if he slips and falls in the shower- and I have to go in to help and see him NAKED-_

The wooden floor screeched loudly as Patroclus abruptly pushed back his chair and stood up. It was obviously no good stewing in the realm of his own delirious imagination. He shook his head to himself as he marched up the stairs, ignoring the wet footprints painting the upstairs floor, ignoring the way his skin tingled as he walked past the bathroom, ignoring ignoring ignoring.

It took a while to decide what clothes to lay out for Achilles. At first, Patroclus couldn’t decide if he should lend him something he’d brought, but then he thought about bringing something Achilles had worn back with him to the city, and that was a no. So instead, he dove deep into his closet and pulled out a tattered T-shirt sporting a band he’d once liked and a pair of gray sweatpants.

To clarify. He did not choose sweatpants because he knew how good Achilles looked in them. Fuck, no. He just thought Achilles would be _comfortable_ in them.

Another minute spent deciding whether or not to leave out a pair of underwear (he did, thinking it would be weird not to). The next minute- arranging anything in his room that looked out of place. Then the shower water turned off, and Patroclus quickly evacuated the premises, very much not eager to see Achilles in a towel.

Patroclus had already started heading downstairs when, from behind him, the door opened.

“Thanks for the shower, man. I owe you one.”

Patroclus wheezed a little and forced himself to turn around. Keeping his eyes pointedly averted, he laughed a little awkwardly. “No, it’s- it’s fine. I laid some clothes out on my bed for you to wear while I dry yours off.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Achilles held something out to him.

Patroclus didn’t want to look. He didn’t. He was worried he was going to trip and fall down the stairs if he did. But Achilles was probably getting tired of seeing him grope around for whatever it was he was holding out.

Patroclus’ breath hitched in his throat as he lifted his gaze.

A towel was tied dangerously low around Achilles’ waist, exposing his dripping-wet chest and torso and just a little below, and Patroclus’ brain short-circuited as he took in miles of rippling, sharp muscle and golden skin. His body must have been sculpted by the gods themselves, it seemed- inhumanly perfect and bare and ethereally beautiful, divine, even.

He was broader- than Patroclus remembered. Stronger. He looked- he looked good. Really good. Even _he_ had to admit it.

Patroclus couldn’t stop staring at the tattoo.

Dark ink curling over Achilles’ strong, wide shoulder, spilling over onto his chest and the top of his bicep. The silhouette of a lion; its mane wild, its jaws wired into a solemn smile, sharp eyes piercing the dim like stars.

“You got a tattoo,” Patroclus said stupidly.

Achilles glanced down, surprised, almost like he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh- yeah. I got it- what, two months ago? I think?” He ruffled his wet hair. “Why, do you like it?”

Patroclus was immediately caught off guard by this question. Well, he couldn’t just say _no_ \- even if he meant it- but would saying he liked it make it seem like he’d been staring?

“Yeah,” he said, anyway. “It’s a good look for you.”

Achilles seemed pleased with himself and simply grinned.

Patroclus forced himself to swallow. He took the clothes Achilles was holding out to him, wondering secretly how long he had been gawking for and hoping Achilles didn’t think anything of it. Hoping that, whatever that was, it was not a _smirk_ on Achilles’ face.

Achilles stretched a little, puffing his chest and arching his back, while Patroclus did his very best not to notice the swell of his glistening chest or the flex of his shoulder muscles or that insanely intricate tattoo or anything else he did not notice. It almost seemed deliberate, the way Achilles was exposing so much of his skin, the slowness with which he stretched his muscles. How low that goddamn towel was.

_The towel. Pull up the towel, you evil fucker._

“I left some clothes out for you on my bed. Just let me know if, like, they don’t fit or anything, or you could just grab something out of my closet,” Patroclus said in a strained voice. He was feeling a little lightheaded and gripped the banister tightly, somewhat afraid that he was two seconds away from tumbling down the stairs.

"Thanks again. Seriously. I don't know what I'd've done, without you," Achilles said, and it seemed like the 'thank-you's were never ending, like he actually had something to be grateful for. Patroclus just helped him with his ankle and let him shower to get him out of wet clothes; not like he'd done _that_ much. Achilles stood lingering just a little longer in the bathroom doorway, before turning and heading into Patroclus’ room. He didn’t need directions.

“Woah, man, this looks exactly like I remember it,” Achilles called out from down the hall, voice struck with wonder. He hadn’t closed the door yet and was still standing by the hall, his carved back bared to Patroclus’s eyes, the way his golden hair plastered itself across damp skin engrained into his mind.

Patroclus felt trapped. He didn’t know what to do or what to say, but the silence was like a tangible thing, sitting on his back, and he conceded under its enormous pressure: “Yeah, I guess. I haven’t been in there since we graduated, I don’t think.” Not that he’d been invited home. Not that he’d wanted to come back.

It had been extraordinarily strange sleeping in his bed last night. Like forcing on a pair of shoes that were just a few inches too small.

_You’re hogging the blankets._

_What?_

_It’s four in the fucking morning, and you’re hogging the blankets._

_No, no I’m not. Stop pulling- now I’m cold-_

_Maybe if you hadn’t hogged them, I wouldn’t have woken up in the first place._

_Asshole._

_Hogger._

_Is that even a real word?_

Patroclus tossed Achilles’ soaking clothes into the washing machine and busied himself with pouring detergent up to the _exact exact_ top of the cap, just enough that it didn’t overflow, before pouring it over the clothes. His therapist’d said that- what did she say? Something about how focusing on external things was a good distraction, for when he felt overwhelmed. He couldn’t remember.

His mind kept going back to the tattoo. It- it was- he didn’t know, why it was so. So. It was- he didn’t know how to describe how he felt about it, yet.

The tattoo, and the tantalizingly low line of his towel, the tan waistline just below-

“Holy _shit_ , Pat,” Achilles called from down the hall. If his voice was tighter than usual, Patroclus couldn't tell. “We look so _small_ in this picture!”

Patroclus chewed the inside of his cheek, recognizing the invitation. His heart was palpitating in his chest. There was no way he was breathing right. He ached for a cigarette, for a drink, for _something_ to punish his body with.

Rain gently tapping against the roof. Cars rushing down empty, waterlogged streets, and the spray they left in their wake. The air sighing with wind that shook the trees, and the excited whispering of the leaves as they felt its presence. External things. _External things._

“Don’t let what’s going on inside overwhelm you,” his therapist had said.

_Cars c a r s rain rainrain water clouds the soundof the washingmach i n e-_

He couldn't remember opening the door. He couldn't remember walking in.

Suddenly he and Achilles were together, in his childhood bedroom, for the first time in six years. He was twenty four, now. He was bigger. He was older.

So why in the world did he feel so goddamn small?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter won't be out for a little longer than a week, probably, because I'm hoping to maybe add a little something extra. ;)
> 
> Hoping all is well!
> 
> Comments and kudos make my world!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay.
> 
> So.
> 
> I was planning on including a drawing in this chapter, which is why this chapter is almost a full week late, and I was SO CLOSE to being done with it before. I dropped. My iPad. So the screen is getting repaired right now, and because it's in the shop I won't be able to finish the drawing for a while longer. And I was considering just waiting a week until I have it back, but then I was impatient and didn't think you guys deserved to wait another week, so here it is. Voila.
> 
> Hoping everyone is surviving quarantine!

“Oh man, the _hell_ is going on in this one,” Achilles snorted, leaning in close to the bulletin board of Polaroids on the wall. His blonde hair was a dripping, messy halo around his head, falling drops of water dousing Patroclus’ T-shirt, and the grey sweatpants were just. A touch. Too small. The fabric was pulled a little tightly over bulging thigh muscles, stretched thin over calves that were stronger than Patroclus’ had ever been.

Patroclus swallowed and walked up beside him. His eyes found the photo Achilles was looking at: a candid Briseis had taken of him and Achilles laughing their asses off at the cafeteria lunch table, doubled-over to catch their breaths while other kids shot them irritated or bemused looks from surrounding tables. Patroclus could remember that his face had hurt for the rest of the day afterward, and he and Achilles had had to excuse themselves from the following class to explode yet again in the hallway.

Patroclus dropped his gaze down to his feet. It didn’t feel right looking at it now. Like he was invading someone else’s privacy, someone else’s memories. His fingers twitched again.

Achilles cleared his throat. “Huh. I can’t remember what we were laughing about.”

“Me neither,” Patroclus said. This was a lie. Achilles had been trying to impersonate a Southern accent, but it had sounded so horrible that the two had nearly bursted into tears. Current-day Patroclus tried to breathe. “M-must’ve been pretty funny, to have gotten us riled up like that.”

“Yeah.” Achilles sighed. From the hallway, the washing machine was gurgling, churning out metallic, high-pitched sounds that could only have been made possible by extreme under-use. His father always did have an issue with doing the laundry.

“You know-” Achilles started but then cut himself short. His eyebrows were pulled together in frustration, and a strained look came over his face, like he was fighting the urge to speak.

Patroclus, of course, could not stand the anticipation. “What’s wrong?” His stomach twisted painfully. “Is it your ankle?”

Achilles, maybe noticing how anxious Patroclus looked, nudged him with his elbow. “Nah, the ankle’s fine. Just pissed that I won’t be able to run til tomorrow is all; I didn’t get to finish up my workout today.”

Patroclus frowned. “You’re fucking with me. The swell is huge, Achilles- you won’t be able to run for at least a week- and that’s given that it’s only a sprain. I doubt it’s broken, but you’ll still want to get it checked out in an actual hospital, not in my goddamn living room-”

Achilles laughed, startling Patroclus out of his rambling. “If this isn’t proof that you know what you’re talking about, I don’t know what is. No reason I need to go to a hospital when I’ve got Doctor Patroclus tellin’ me what to do. You’re literally a genius, Pat. I’m in good hands.”

Oh man, he could _feel_ the red splotches blossoming across his face. Patroclus’ heart did a weird little skip in his chest, and he hoped to God that Achilles couldn’t hear his suddenly-fucked breathing pattern. His lungs hadn’t been very kind to him, as of late. Patroclus swallowed the lump of saliva anchored in his throat and forced himself to look stern; “I appreciate that, but if it’s broken, you need to go to a hospital before it gets worse.” His face was still red, as he said it. It would probably be red for a long time. Patroclus wasn’t very subtle, when it came to his emotions.

Achilles grinned and rolled his eyes. “Fine. _Only_ ,” he added, “because you look like you’ll gonna hit me if I say no.” The two laughed as Pat muttered “I still might” under his breath.

“Hey!” Achilles enthused. He was pointing at a different photo. Patroclus could make out green and brown and two indistinct faces from where he was standing and realized it was from a hike, from a long hike the two often took up the side of a wooded mountain twenty minutes from town. “Think that trail is still there? The one we always took?”

Patroclus could almost smell the pine trees, if he tried. He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Huh. Wait- I almost forgot you used to have braces,” Achilles muttered, now squinting at a picture in which Patroclus’ face was split open in a wide, happy smile next to Briseis.

Patroclus shook his head, pushing him a little; he did _not_ like that picture. “Sure you did. You used to tease me about them! You called me-”

“Magnetic mouth!”

Patroclus’ hand instinctively flew up to cover his mouth, and Achilles giggled conspiratorially, his tongue sticking out a little against parted teeth in a way that was weirdly adorable. Patroclus looked down to hide his own smile, but he suspected that Achilles saw it anyway; when he finally lifted his gaze, the blonde boy was biting back an even wider grin, staring gleefully at the photos but clearly not looking at any one in particular.

The whirl of the washing machine seemed quieter.

Achilles was now leaning in close to the bulletin board, fixated on a photo Patroclus couldn’t see from where he was standing. Slender fingers reached out toward the photo, when, out of the blue, a very strange look fell across Achilles’ face. As if burned, he quickly retracted his hand, and his face was strangely vacant as he turned to face Patroclus. It was like- it was like something in him had shut down, the way he looked.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Achilles said.

He’d already said that. He’d already said that, and he knew it. The odd, empty look was still there, green eyes dull and almost- almost lost. It was a scary look. Flat, empty. The face of a stranger.

What photo had he been looking at, to make Achilles go away? Patroclus wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

The room seemed to darken, and Patroclus was reminded of something he couldn’t forget.

“Me too” was all Patroclus could say in return. He bit down harder on his cheek and was pleased at the taste of his own blood. His fingers, still twitching at his sides, curled into tight balls, so tight that his nails- bitten down to the beds- dug into his palms. He wondered how much force it would take to cut open the skin, but his nails were too dull to do more than make him flinch.

It was strange, the thought that flashed through his mind next. He wanted- he wanted Achilles to hit him in the face, and he wanted it to hurt. There wasn’t much time to ruminate on _why_ he was thinking about that, because at that exact second-

The washing machine grated out a last, wailing screech from the hallway before shuddering silent.

“I’ll just- I’ll put them in the dryer, really quick.”

 _Get out of the room out out o u t getout he’s sssstaring because he knows you’re not right in thehead heknowssomething’s wr o n g with you_ -

If Achilles noticed that Patroclus wasn’t breathing right, he didn’t say anything about it. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all, as Patroclus walked quickly out of the bedroom, dying to taste air that wasn’t dense with ghosts, dying to start the dryer and hear a sound that was louder than his own heartbeat. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair, that being here, being with Achilles, did this to him. He had spent years- goddamn years- figuring out a way to be someone else. Figuring out how to live as just himself. Figuring out how to walk into a world he didn’t recognize and smile. And just be Patroclus.

And now his father was dead, and he couldn’t remember what he had done wrong in his life for him to feel so lonely, to make him forget the feeling that he could do anything.

A tangible weight lifted from his shoulders as he left the bedroom. He didn’t need to look back to know that Achilles was still staring at the wall.

What photo was he looking at?

“Are you staying with your dad?” Patroclus asked distantly, not even aware he was speaking until the words had already left his mouth.

“Huh? Oh, no. He moved away a couple weeks ago. Actually, that’s part of the reason I’m here- he left a couple important boxes at his old house and asked me to swing by and pick ’em up for him, just before the new family moves in. I’m staying in a hotel until my flight two days from now.”

“Oh.” Patroclus switched on the dryer and jumped at the garbled roar of the machine as it came to life.

Achilles barked out a laugh. “Damn, your dad did _not_ like doing laundry.”

“I mean, seriously? First the shower, now the goddamn dryer-”

“That shower wasn’t so nice, no,” Achilles chuckled.

Patroclus grimaced but was secretly immensely relieved to hear that Achilles had emerged from his catatonic state. “Ah. Sorry. I literally remembered there was no hot water, like, as soon as you went up there.”

“Nah, s’fine. It was definitely better than muddy rain-water, anyway.”

Pat glanced over at the window, suddenly aware of the pressing silence. “Huh. It’s stopped raining.” Sunlight had begun to seep through the frothy clouds and was glazing the wet roads, glinting off puddles like flashlights.

A couple seconds passed, and it was strange, the silence that filled the gap in conversation. It was all strange. Patroclus tried not to think about how strange it was. He also tried not to think about the fact that Achilles was still staring at his bulletin board because that was strange, too. He very much just wanted things to be normal again. So instead Patroclus thought about coffee, and that little cafe a block from his apartment, and how they made the best coffee there in the whole goddamn world, and how he could sure as fuck use a cup right now because he must’ve woken up about fifty times last night because, to put it kindly, insomnia was a bitch and his bedroom smelled like shitty cologne.

The dryer belched out a roar as he started it.

A sudden jolt flushed through his limbs as he realized that Achilles was watching him from his bedroom doorway. Pat turned to face him on instinct, startled when he saw that the Achilles’ whole body was tense, coiled up and rigid like a predator about to strike.

Achilles looked frustrated. His brow was furrowed and his lips were twisted into a frown and he looked like maybe he was about to punch a wall.

“It’s not raining anymore,” Achilles echoed. His voice was faraway.

“Yeah, I guess it isn’t,” Patroclus parroted simply because he wasn’t sure what else he could say. His pulse was now under control, which was a good thing, but he didn’t think it’d stay that way if tense silence fell upon them again.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said.

Patroclus faltered, almost slipped in his socks. It was- it was just as he remembered it. Achilles’ voice was strained and he looked upset but _there it was_ , _there was his name_ , and he didn’t know what Achilles saying it meant but it was there and it was _pretty again_ and Patroclus was probably supposed to say something back but he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t move his tongue, and his pulse was kicking up too fast but it was a good fast this time, a good kind of high.

Achilles took a breath. “Let’s go hiking. While- while it’s not raining.”

Patroclus couldn't tell if he wanted it to start storming again, or if he wanted a drought. He said okay, anyways, because that was what he did- he talked without thinking, he invited his ex-into his house without thinking, and he was letting himself feel things again, without thinking.


End file.
